My Damsel, My Distress
by potterstagswag
Summary: Apodyopsis (the mental undressing of a person); Nyssa's training clothes are having a weird effect on Sara these days.


There are a lot of things to get frustrated about when sparring with a woman who holds absolutely no consideration for your own pride, but the last thing Sara ever thought would grate her attention was that stupid strap of Nyssa's tank top that barely clung to her shoulder.

"Come on, Ta-er al-Sahfer," she was goading, blowing a loose strand of hair away from her face, "You are getting sloppier."

It was meant to rile her up even more, and it did. The infuriating thing about it though - the thing that really got her - was that it threw her even further off guard. 'It' being her hair, not her words. Sara felt her focus waver, her concentration break, when all her eyes could do was watch the way the strand grazed Nyssa's collarbone.

And then all she could think about next was stepping into the other assassin's guard and pushing that goddamn strap completely off.

Maybe with her hand, so her fingers can brush across the slope of her neck. Maybe with her lips, so she can finally - finally - figure out if all that muscle and power would feel soft or hard under her breath. Maybe with her teeth, so she can show her that neither of them are as fragile or collected as they thought.

She shouldn't be thinking like this, she knew that. If not because it was wrong (God _forbid_ that one assassin may get attached to another assassin while you're both supposed to be thinking about actual assassin-y stuff, like how to break a grown man's spine in under .5 seconds), then because it left her vulnerable for Nyssa's right hook.

Sara found herself being thrown against the wall. Lately, neither of them have been holding back. Nyssa still insisted on giving her five minute breaks, and she was pretty sure that most of her punches only landed because those were allowed as well, but, ever since they shared their first mission together, things have gotten a bit more equal.

Or, you know, as _equal_ as it gets when one person is constantly being knocked around, but mostly because a part of her can't deny that she kind of likes it.

"Are you even listening right now?" Nyssa was asking, probably because she'd just been spouting off various tips on how not to get shoved into a wall.

"Umhmm..." Sara responded, probably because she was busy following a bead of sweat as it trailed down under Nyssa's top.

Her gaze blurred, constructing hazy images of placing her palms over the fabric, of feeling the taut muscles lining her stomach. Of pushing it up, ripping it over her head and finding that _of course_ the daughter of Ra's al Ghul wore sport bras that coordinated with her training outfit.

There were too many possibilities; different colored bras for each tank top she's ever seen Nyssa sport. Purple ones that are easily peeled off. Red ones that make every breath she takes obvious - the breathing that she hadn't noticed, until now, sounded so much better labored than its usual calm. Just simple old grey ones that needed to be slid off slowly, _tortuously_ because that's the only word that comes to her mind when she recalls that they'd match perfectly with her favorite pair of Nyssa's sweats.

Visibly worn and possibly made of cotton, they always hung so precariously on her hips. Dangerously slack, begging gravity to just do its job and sink them even lower. And she wanted to bunch the material in her fists, to rip them away because who wears bulky pants in ninety plus degree weather.

She wanted _Nyssa_ against the wall, _Nyssa's_ concentration faltering, Nyssa's breath hitching because her hand is slipping under her waistband and finding out whether she's the kind of woman that prefers lace or boy shorts.

Either answer would've sent Sara's mind reeling to any given tangent.

She was all muscle and edges and tan, tan skin; and she covered it all up. She was long legs that Sara wanted to be entangled with her own - bare and smooth and relaxed. She was coy smiles and eyes that crinkled at the sides when amused - something that, for a second, was _all_ Sara wanted to see her donning.

Sara knew she shouldn't feel this way. Finally snapping back to reality, to realizing that she was staring open-mouthed at a very disapproving and confused assassin, she knew that she shouldn't be this flustered.

But then, of course, her eyes wandered back to that loose strap - the only thing disheveled about Nyssa's appearance, really - and she knew that she'd only get a few punches in before it all started back up again.


End file.
